100 Percent Pure Love
by sillythings
Summary: John's just back from his honeymoon and pulled into an early morning intervention for Sherlock at 221B. Constructive criticism welcome!
1. Chapter 1

100% Pure Love

John Watson stretched in bed and smiled down at the tousled head of his beloved Mary, cuddled against his shoulder. The clock beside the bed announced that it was 6:23 a.m. The buzzing cell phone that had disturbed his slumber buzzed again. He fumbled for the phone, trying to answer it before the noise woke Mary—she needed her rest after last night, he grinned to himself at the thought. Such a naughty lady…

The phone buzzed again, and he cleared his throat before croaking "John Watson."

"John," Mycroft Holmes replied, "A car is waiting for you downstairs. " John groaned, it was too early for this.

"No, Mycroft, no," John protested, "I just got back from my honeymoon yesterday. I do not have time to be whisked away to an abandoned building…"

"Be fair, John," Mycroft drawled, "that was only the once—it's been coffee shops and the club since…"

John carefully slipped out of bed to avoid disturbing Mary as he dealt with the call. He'd been waiting for this, the ever present worry in the back of his mind during his wedding trip.

"No. I am going back to sleep. When I wake up several hours from now, I will take my beautiful wife to breakfast, and then, maybe, we can chat."

"Please, John," Mycroft's tone suddenly pleading, vulnerable. "He needs you."

John paused, "Has he had a danger night?" remembering Sherlock's rather dramatic proclamation after the wedding that now John had Mary, he, Sherlock, would need to seek other "solutions" to his boredom—a 7% solution, to be exact.

A soft sigh from Mycroft, "He has had a danger month. We are meeting at the flat to, as Mrs. Hudson insists upon calling it, "stage an intervention."

"Ah…yes, that doesn't sound like something that will be well received. Who is "we"?" John reached for his trousers. It looked like sleep and breakfast would have to wait.

"Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, you and I. I tried to reach Miss Hooper, but she's not answering and she's not at her flat. Either an early shift at work or a date that ran late, I presume. Can I count on you, John?"

"I'll be downstairs in just a moment," John drew a jumper over his head and bent down to kiss his wife goodbye. She opened her eyes sleepily, "are you off somewhere?"

"Just saving Sherlock Holmes from himself" John smiled, "I'll be back soon."

Greg was just arriving at 221B when John and Mycroft pulled up to the curb, and the three found Mrs. Hudson nervously fluttering her hands in the kitchen, hovering just outside the threshold of the hall that led to Sherlock's room.

"He won't come out," she whispered, "and he's been quite rude about it—though that's nothing new."

"So, what have you found?" Lestrade asked, "Have you found any evidence? Needles? "

"I've checked all the usual places, and even sorted through his socks—I won't tell you what he said about that!—but nothing," the kindly woman responded, shaking her head.

"So, why the intervention? What's caused the alarm," John asked, a bit impatiently.

"He's been out of sorts, obviously, since you left on your wedding trip, dear," Mrs. Hudson began, "Up all hours of the night—you should have heard the ruckus last night! Banging around the flat and groaning—he's been red-eyed and sleepy, lounging about in his pajamas."

"I'm sorry, "John interrupted, "but have you met the man? That sounds like a typical day in the life for Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, but he's also been very secretive, not letting me in the flat, not even to clean, and he's been disappearing for a day or two at a time. Again, nothing so unusual when he's been out on cases, but he hasn't had a case in weeks!" Mrs. Hudson continued, "And yesterday, when I asked him if maybe he could find himself a nice murder to keep himself occupied, he said "How can murder compare to true love found." Poor boy, he's just missed you so."

"He said that?" John asked, "True love found? Seems a bit…cheesy…for him. Still, doesn't seem like anything to get worked up over…"

"There is one other thing," Mycroft interrupted, "I'd like you to listen to following message I received from Sherlock two days ago." After pressing a few buttons, he passed the phone over to John.

He heard Sherlock's silky voice on the line, "Brother, dear…. "a sharp intake of breath. Sherlock's voice started again, sounding thick and a bit breathy, "Mycroft, your worry is duly noted…." Long pause. "but if you dooo….ooon't…stop having your…" pause….gasp….pause…."goons stop following me…" a huffed breath and a deep baritone giggle…(Did Sherlock Holmes just giggle?)…"For God's sake!" and a click. End of message.

"Well, that was…ah…unusual?" John seemed a bit stunned as he passed the phone back to Mycroft.

"Yes, well, given his history, the incoherence of that message and the behavior that Mrs. Hudson noted, I do think we have cause for concern" the elder Holmes frowned.

"Did I hear him giggle?" Greg seemed disturbed.

Mycroft gestured toward the bedroom, "Perhaps, John, you'll have better success in rousing him?"

John nodded and made his way to Sherlock's door. He knocked lightly.

"Go AWAY, Mrs. Hudson!"

"Uh, Sherlock, it's John?" he glanced back at the three in the kitchen with a worried frown.

He heard the thump of feet on the floor and the door opened a tiny crack. John saw one bright blue eye peeking out.

"John?" Sherlock said wonderingly, and slammed the door shut. John stood a moment, unsure what to do next, when the door opened a few inches and Sherlock slid out sideways, slamming the door behind him again.

Sherlock looked at John eagerly, unable to stop the grin that was forming, "You're back!" Sherlock's eyes narrowed suspiciously, "What are you doing here this early?" He looked past John to see the group in the kitchen, and gave a glance at John that clearly said, "Et tu?"

John opened his mouth to answer and closed it again. "I was going to hug you, but as you are clearly naked under your dressing gown, that will have to wait."

Sherlock followed John through the kitchen, into the living room where Mrs. Hudson, Greg and Mycroft had gathered. "Please have a seat, Sherlock," Mycroft began. Sherlock's narrowed eyes glared at each in turn.

"Oh, really Mycroft, an intervention" he sneered, "You've been watching a few too many television dramas lately."

Mrs. Hudson spoke up, "It was my idea dear, and it's only because we love you so. You risked yourself to save us. How can we stand by and let you destroy yourself for real."

"I am clean!" Sherlock protested indignantly, "I haven't even had a cigarette since John's been gone."

"Show us your arms then, mate" Greg moved to stand next to the landlady, "Cos you're sure acting like you are on something."

Sherlock started to protest before heaving a dramatic sigh and pushing up the silky sleeves of his dressing gown. No tracks. Sherlock flopped into his chair, across from where Mycroft sat and engaged in a glaring match with his older brother.

John appraised Sherlock with his physician's eye. He may have been acting strangely, but he didn't look so bad. His black curls were tousled, sticking up all over his head. He was pale but not pallid, with a bright hectic spot of color on each cheek. A little sweaty—he looked like he had had a night of it…but of what? With Sherlock, who knew? Harpooning dead pigs? Practicing judo?

Mycroft, who had been staring at Sherlock, taking in his younger brother's appearance, suddenly shifted his gaze to a spot on the floor, just to the right of Sherlock's chair. His eyebrows raised, and he turned to the others.

"Well, this may not be the best time after all…" the elder Holmes suddenly announced. Sherlock looked at him sharply. Greg and Mrs. Hudson made sounds of protest.

"What do you mean? We have him here. He needs to explain himself," Greg started, when John heard the distinct sound of Sherlock's bedroom door opening. John glanced at Sherlock whose eyes suddenly widened. Mycroft shifted uncomfortably.

"Sorry I'm late!" chirped Molly Hooper brightly as she stepped out from the kitchen into the living room, brushing past Greg and Mrs. Hudson, who both looked behind them.

"Is there a back door I don't know about?" Greg asked Mrs. Hudson, who laid a hand on the side of her face and shook her head.

"I have to be at Bart's at 8 a.m. so I can't stay long," Molly continued moving to stand before Sherlock, "but I am very ashamed of you, Sherlock Holmes! For someone so brilliant, you should be very aware of the dangers of drug use!"

John gaped at the young woman who had magically appeared from…no, it couldn't be, could it?...from Sherlock's bedroom. The sweaty, naked under his robe Sherlock…

"Holy mother," John muttered. Molly's long brown hair, usually swept up into a tidy pony tail was loose and a bit frowsy. She was barefoot, but as she listed the effects of cocaine on the human body, she slipped into a pair of mint green ballet flats that were on the floor next to Sherlock's chair.

"…and furthermore, we have the body of an overdose victim at Bart's right now that I really think you should take a look at, just to remind yourself of the consequences," Molly finished her reprimand, while Sherlock gazed up at her a bit nonplussed, but with something in his blue eyes that made John "Three-Continents" Watson want to blush.

"I'd be happy to look at any body you'd like to show me, Molly Hooper," Sherlock drawled. Molly's cheeks flushed and her eyes widened. Mrs. Hudson's uttered a soft, "Dear me," and Mycroft's eyebrows lifted again.

"Yes, well…best be going! Traffic is such a headache this time of day," Molly stammered, and giving a half wave to the assembled party, rushed out the door.

Greg stared after Molly, mouth hung open. Mrs. Hudson, hand aside her face still, looked behind her again, as if expecting another woman to emerge from the bedroom. John looked at Mycroft, who was taking out his phone again. There was a long uncomfortable silence as Sherlock sat in smug self-righteousness.

"Well, thank you very much for your concern," he declared briskly, standing up "Please show yourselves out." He strode out of the room. They heard the slam of a door and then the sounds of the shower being turned on.

Greg broke the uncomfortable silence that still hung in the air, "So, I got pulled out of my bed to come over here because Sherlock is shagging Molly Hooper? I've got murders to solve, and I'm looking after Sherlock Holmes' sex life…" the detective inspector muttered to himself as he turned to leave.

Mycroft was on the phone, "Yes, Anthea, please intercept Ms. Hooper and offer her a ride. We wouldn't want her to be late for work now, would we?" He turned to John, "I apologize for the trouble. Please give my regards to Mary." He followed Greg out the door.

"Welcome home, dear" Mrs. Hudson said warmly, giving John a hug. "I do think you need to have a talk with Sherlock. Because if the noises I've been hearing coming from here are what I think they were, I'm a little worried about what exactly they are getting up to. I may not be as experienced as many are these days, but they do seem unusually loud when they are about it. And honestly, he never should have let Molly leave without offering her breakfast or at least coffee, it really wasn't very gentlemanly at all now that I think of it," she turned to go, stopping to give John one more hug, "Goodness, I'm glad you're back."

John stood a moment alone, feeling a bit shell-shocked. "It's certainly never boring ," he thought as made his way out of the flat and home to see if Mary might be up for making some noise before breakfast.


	2. Chapter 2

**I wasn't going to continue this, but the reviews made me so happy, and I love the thought of Molly and Anthea being buddies, gossiping about their men. I hope you enjoy!**

Molly Hooper slouched in the corner of the back seat of the car, staring sightlessly out the window, gnawing her bottom lip. The bravado that had sustained her as she did the walk of shame out of 221B before every single one of Sherlock's friends and family left her abruptly when the sleek, black car pulled alongside her, and Mycroft's assistant Anthea smiled at her blandly from the open window, "I believe we are heading in the same direction, Miss Hooper."

"Of course we are," muttered Molly, rolling her eyes skyward before sliding through the open door. Now she sat, watching London slip by outside the window, wondering if she had any spare knickers in her locker at work or whether she should ask to be dropped off at home and just call in late. And if she was going to call in late anyway, why the hell didn't she just hide under Sherlock's duvet until everyone left? She was an idiot.

"How did the intervention go?" Anthea asked mildly, not looking up from her phone, fingers moving rapidly across the keys. Molly glanced over at the woman. Not a hair out of place. Suit crisp and perfect. And here she was, uncombed, smelling like a cross between a locker-room and a chemistry lab (oh, yes, that HAD been fun—if dangerous—though how clever he thought her to know the warming properties of that particular combination of chemicals).

"Fine," she squeaked (ah, yes, all bravado gone, she thought. Here comes the mouse). "Luckily, Sherlock was NOT using cocaine again. We are all quite relieved." Simple, quiet dignity. Yes, she'd managed that. Perhaps.

"But he was on something, yes?" Anthea squinted up at Molly, a mischievous smile beginning to form on her lips. Stunned, Molly opened and closed her mouth for a moment before she remembered she was being quietly dignified.

"I don't quite get your implication," she said airily.

"It would seem that Mr. Holmes the younger has developed quite an addiction to you," Anthea focused her full bright-eyed attention on the pathologist, her fingers still. "Don't be alarmed! I don't mean to pry, but well, I may be able to lend you an ear or offer some advice as a voice of experience as it were."

Molly felt the blood drain from her face, "You and Sherlock? Togeth—"

"Oh, dear God, no." Anthea cut in quickly, "No, Sherlock is not…no."

Molly's wide brown eyes got wider. "Mycroft?" she hissed in a horrified whisper. It made sense when she thought about it, though she quickly realized that she didn't want to think about it. But now she was thinking about it, and she was never going to be able to look Mycroft Holmes in the face again without thinking about it. Not that she would have been able to look him in the face after this morning's events anyway, but this just made it worse.

Anthea smirked, "He's not so bad. Actually, he's rather good…very, very good."

"Oh," gasped Molly, "Please don't…I don't want to know. Really, I don't."

"Well, if Sherlock is anything like his brother, and he is whether he wants to admit it or not, you are a very lucky woman in many respects," smirked Anthea, "but you are also in for a world of hell."

Molly waited for her to finish. Like she didn't know that life could be hellish with Sherlock. She only put up with his crap nearly every day of her life, accidentally dating criminal psychopaths who wanted to be near him, risking her entire career helping him fake his death, watching him destroy her great-grandmother's china platter with a blowtorch when he was using it for…what was he using it for? She couldn't remember. When she'd started in on him, he'd placed a fine fingered hand on either side of her head and kissed her until she was breathless. He'd murmured in her ear, "It's for science, Molly. And now it's time for Biology" and that was the end of the argument and Granny Esther's platter. She rolled her eyes again at falling for that hokey line. But what was Anthea saying?

"The Holmes men are fiercely possessive, arrogant, dismissive and often downright cruel. They will, sometimes unintentionally, crush you mercilessly in pursuit of their own whims and desires. But they are also loyal, protective, and they are hurt far more easily than it would appear." The lovely PA, stared abstracted into nothing for a moment, seeing into her mind's eye. Molly nodded, again, this wasn't particularly new insight on Sherlock. She had him figured out pretty well.

Anthea focused on Molly again, "Yes. I see you do know. Sherlock is very lucky to have you. I'll do my best to make sure he is reminded of that fact." Anthea paused before continuing, reaching out to lay a slim, cool hand on Molly's. "If you ever need a shoulder, someone to commiserate with, someone who understands quite well, feel free to call on me."

Molly grasped the offered hand, and smiled gratefully, "Thank you. I think you may be the only other person who could understand."

Anthea laughed brightly, "Oh, no! There is one other person that might have an idea what it's like, and I expect you'll be meeting her soon enough." Anthea glanced back down at her Blackberry, fingers once again tapping away. "Are you free on Thursday? Mycroft seems to have already set up a lunch date for you and Mummy at 1 p.m."

A ball of ice dropped into the pit of Molly's belly. She looked up at the smooth, unruffled Anthea in a panic. "Wha-, no I don't…" she began to stammer. It was only 7:30 a.m. and she was already so emotionally overwrought, sexually spent, mortified beyond belief that she wasn't sure she could function much longer.

"Oh, don't worry, " Anthea smiled as her eyes dropped back down to her phone. "It can't be any worse than the first time I met her."

Molly stared in fascinated horror as she whispered, "What happened?"

"Well, Mummy dropped by quite unexpectedly one evening while Mycroft was having dessert by the fire, " began Anthea.

"Yes?" Molly pressed, knowing well how Sherlock loved to tease his brother for his love of sweets.

"I was dessert," Anthea twinkled at Molly.

Molly nodded slowly. Sherlock's snide remarks to Mycroft about cake suddenly took on a new dimension. She'd found someone who understood, indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

Since Sherlock's "intervention," Molly and Sherlock were studies in propriety. After that morning, there was little doubt in anyone's mind that they were together, but they went to extraordinary lengths to avoid showing any overt evidence of it, especially once the tabloids got wind that the St. Bart's pathologist might have more than a working relationship with the consulting detective. But while Sherlock and Molly were seen together, there was no public canoodling or hand holding. In public, they maintained a front that was all friendly but diginified. With a lack of information about this new relationship, the tabloids were digging up the old, and since Kitty Reilly herself had harbored "Richard," she was the first to jump on a new angle. Which was why, in part, Mycroft, Sherlock, Molly, Anthea and John were at 221B together, discussing how to best take care of the Reilly situation among other things. Or rather, Mycroft and Sherlock were discussing it. The others were waiting until they were needed.

"Oh, please, everyone's dated at least one criminal or psychopath, at least if they're in their 30s and living in London, they have" Anthea said off-handedly, eyes on her phone, "I told you about my dictator."

"Maybe," Molly tossed her ponytail as she turned the page of a tabloid, "but at least your mistake wasn't written up in the local rag." The headline screamed PATHOLOGIST KEY TO DISGRACED DETECTIVE'S RETURN FROM THE GRAVE? Kitty Reilly's face smiled up at her from the byline. "And you got a blood diamond out of it."

Anthea didn't look up, "Mmm. I didn't get to keep it. International smuggling laws or something…I dunno."

John opened his mouth to ask the name of the dictator, but Anthea barely acknowledged his existence at the best of times, and if Sherlock was in the room, Molly usually didn't notice John at all. As a result, he was privy to some rather entertaining conversation when he sat back and stayed quiet. Oh, the things he'd learned lately!

Molly sighed as she folded up the offending article, "Just when you think you've lived something down. Do you want to run downstairs with me and get a coffee while they hash it out? " Anthea nodded without looking up and followed Molly out the door.

John looked toward the desk where Sherlock and Mycroft had their heads together, for once not at each other's throats. The Reilly situation had been settled, and they were moving on to other important matters. They'd had a series of meetings since Sherlock's return from the dead, Mycroft helping transition him back to real life. Their girlfriends were also a steady presence, assisting in the troublesome task of resurrection. The Holmes men did not call Molly and Anthea their girlfriends. No, indeed. Anthea was Mycroft's "personal assistant," I-don't-know-what-you-are-implying-John-Watson Mycroft's tilted head and snide smile communicated very clearly when John asked him how the "little woman" was. Sherlock was more direct when John had asked him if his girlfriend was going to be joining them. "Don't be stupid, John," he sneered, "Molly is a grown woman. Hardly a girl."

"And you would know about that!" John murmured raising his eyebrows expressively. Sherlock rolled his eyes and picked up his revolver to see if it were loaded.

Before his relationship with Molly began, Sherlock had only been vaguely aware of Mycroft's involvement with Anthea. That sort of thing flew over his head for so long because he really didn't care about relationships or sentiment of any kind. He did know there had been some sort of incident involving Mycroft, Anthea and a custard tart or something…Mummy had hinted darkly at something untoward at the time, but while Sherlock was always looking for ammunition against his brother, he somehow retained only that Mummy was upset with Mycroft over something pudding oriented and so his insults tended toward the "how's your diet" variety rather than "you compromised your personal assistant in front of Mummy" type. Sherlock understood dessert better than he understood women.

Besides, thinking about how and with whom Mycroft was getting off ranked right up there with the solar system as information he did not need to know, thank _you_ very much.

Sorting through the information before him, Sherlock pushed himself back from the desk and ran his fingers through his hair, frustrated, bored. This was bureaucratic nonsense. He knew he was alive. Who cared if the government did? Mycroft was the government. He should just fix it.

Irritable, Sherlock glanced at his brother and off-handedly remarked, "Your moisturizing routine really isn't working on those freckles, Mycroft."

The other man looked up swiftly, a look of surprise on his face before retorting, "That may be, little brother, but I have to say that your new eyebrow plucking is a vast improvement."

Sherlock's head reared back and both men's faces clearly registered shock. The insults were fairly mild, but how did they know these things? They could put it down to each simply being observant, of course, of course! They were the Holmes brothers. Masters of deduction. But a little cold frog of fear had crept into their souls. Molly had told Sherlock that Mycroft was a little sensitive about the sun damage. He knew Anthea was the one who suggested Mycroft try a little fading cream if it bothered him (indeed, she was the one who applied it for him). Sherlock had snorted derisively at the time while Molly lectured him on the necessity of sunblock on skin like his. "I autopsied a victim of melanoma just last week, Sherlock Holmes. At least your brother is aware."

Mycroft had smiled indulgently when Anthea mentioned the good influence Molly had on Sherlock and his hygiene. The bathroom and kitchen were almost usable and Sherlock had even allowed Molly to go at him with the tweezers when she claimed that the uni-brow he was developing wasn't doing him any favors. It hadn't occurred to Mycroft that this information had come at a price, a bit of quid pro quo. Dear Lord, he was losing his touch.

They brothers eyed each other warily, each preparing to test the theory that had just occurred to them both.

"Dear me, you are cantankerous today, little brother. Perhaps when we've finished here, Molly can tuck you in for a nap 'like a teddy bear'" Mycroft jeered. Sherlock stopped short, his cheeks developing a hot flush. So, once…only once, mind you, (alright, maybe twice) he and Molly played "Round and Round the Garden." The childish tickle game led to something of a more adult nature, but Mycroft should not, could not know that!

"Installed cctv in my bedroom, Mycroft? I wouldn't have expected such low voyeurism from you, but what can I expect from someone who thinks the knees are a primary erogenous zone. You need all the help you can get."

Mycroft's nostrils flared and he drew himself up to his full imposing height, "My, aren't we the experienced Don Juan if we are critiquing another's technique. It's the back of the knees you naïve little man."

The theory was proven. The women were talking to each other. They were talking about them. What security breaches had occurred? What did each brother now know about the other?

John's eyes had followed the volley between the brothers, grinning to himself. Oh, this was good. All too human after all, eh boys? Let's have some fun.

"You know," John broke in, "Last night, I tried something in bed with Mary that I didn't think was anatomically possible, and I'm a doctor. I overhead Molly mentioning it. You two can't possibly do that every time, do you?" The macho soldier inside of John, the one who had romanced his way around the world was enjoying the red faced squirm this statement produced from Sherlock. Despite everyone catching them out that one morning (and despite Mrs. Hudson's need for earplugs), Sherlock did not talk about IT. Not with anyone. It wasn't anyone's business, now was it? If you talk about it, you soon find yourself in a situation where Kitty Reilly knows your deepest and darkest secrets, and people are reading about how you like the tops of your ears stroked as foreplay while they eat their breakfast toast.

Sherlock's eyes darted over John's face. Did she do what every time? Every time was different. He was a musician. He understood variations on a theme. She was a doctor. She understood human anatomy. Was it not like that for everyone? What the hell was Molly telling people?

"I thought that was amazing enough, but then I had Mary try this little something I heard about that apparently, only the harem girls of this bizarre, mad dictator know." Mycroft's face dropped and went pale under his freckles.

"I can honestly say, boys, that after listening to your girlfriends chat, I have never been so sexually enlightened in my life." John leaned back against the sofa and smiled.

There was sound of the front door opening and closing and the stairs creaked as the Molly and Anthea made their way up to the flat again.

"But what does it look like?" Molly's sweet, chirping voice floated up the stairs, "I mean, it must be rare to get a glimpse of something like that."

Anthea's honeyed voice replied, "Well, it was kind of small and dirty. Uncut, it wasn't much to look at."

Sherlock and Mycroft stood speechless as their ears picked up the conversation of the two women returning to the flat. Mycroft especially looked as if he were going to be sick. Even John sat dumbfounded—were there no boundaries at all?

"Oh," Molly sounded disappointed as they reached the landing, "I always thought it was something rare and beautiful. Maybe translucent red, like blood." John cocked his head at Sherlock who scrunched his face up, shrugging. Mycroft still looked dazed.

"No, not at all. The name comes from the fact that they are mined in war zone, not because they are a special color or anything," Anthea explained as they both crossed the threshold, a coffee in each hand.

"Here you are, boys!" Molly smiled handing round cups. Noting the looks on the three men's faces, Molly frowned, "Is everything okay?" Anthea looked up at the change in tone, looked at Mycroft's face, and promptly looked down again.

The Holmes feud had gone nuclear. In the war of words, each had a weapon of mass destruction. If Sherlock deployed the knowledge he got from Molly, Mycroft would do the same with what he learned from Anthea. Mycroft was a good politician. A peace treaty must be brokered.

"I think we are just about finished here, aren't we Mycroft?" Sherlock said firmly. His blue eyes beseeched his brother.

Mycroft reached for his umbrella, "Yes, yes, of course, Sherlock. I think that's it." That's it for rudeness and personal insults, petty arguments. How could this war continue? They could only destroy each other.

John felt as though he were watching history being made. The brothers set aside their childish weapons and met as men on the battlefield. The Holmes men shook hands calling truce. The decades old feud was mended as the brothers united against letting anyone else find out what their girlfriends knew about them.


End file.
